Regulations
by Mrs Don Draper
Summary: Kink Meme Prompt: I need a continuation of the scene where Silva has Bond tied up, or just a scene in general where Silva rapes Bond - and Bond does not enjoy it. I need a fic where he's not secretly enjoying it. As a matter of fact, bonus points for making Bond vulnerable, or struggling, or scared and panicking. *Rape, Forced feminization, Restraints*
1. Regulations

The lube is lukewarm as it leaks out of his ass when Silva finally removes his fingers from his body. He tugs uselessly again at the restraints that keep his wrists and ankles tied to the bed, face down. His hole throbs painfully and that was just his fingers. He supposes he should be glad Silva used any lubricant at all. Though that was probably for his own personal benefit than for Bond's. His ass feels decidedly open and vulnerable. He feels as though he's gaping when really it's probably negligible stretching at most. Silva chuckles behind him.

"You're going to love this, James. Soon I'll be filling you and making you feel so good, you'll wonder why you even fought me on this. Believe me; this is going to be fun!"

"Fuck you."

"Maybe next time. If you're a good boy."

Bond hears more lube squirt out of the bottle and what is most likely Silva slicking up his cock. He tries to crane his neck around to see and soon wishes he hadn't. He was huge. Shorter than his own cock, but fatter, blunter. Something that could and probably would do serious damage to his ass. He also wasn't wearing a condom.

"Are you ready, Mr. Bond?"

James chooses not to respond. He balls his hands into fists instead to give him something else to focus on. He involuntarily clenches his ass shut as well. He feels Silva's large hands pry his cheeks apart.

"Believe me when I say, James, that it will be better for the both of us if you unclench. I personally do not mind fucking you bloody, but I am sure that you will not appreciate the experience."

Bond begrudgingly heeds his words. His stomach churns with anxiety and his thoughts begin running through his head as he mentally tries to plan his escape. There's still time, isn't there? He'll get away. He's a double-oh, after all. _You'll be fine,_ he tells himself. _You can still escape_.

Silva thrusts himself inside. Bond cannot contain the scream that leave his mouth. Everything is going backwards. There's no space left inside himself. Every inch is full of wet, throbbing cock. It's so big. He's being stretched out further than he's ever been in his life. Fuck, it hurts.

James squirms against the bed sheets. The semi he had had from Silva's prep is gone, and for that, he is grateful. He may have to suffer through this, but he doesn't have to enjoy it. He thinks back to what Silva said in the warehouse: "What is the regulation for this?" He'll go through the whole goddamn manual in his mind if he has to.

He remembers a couple of specific lines from that particular part of MI6 training manual.

~The more one fights, the more pain experienced and the angrier your captor will be.~

~Don't tell them anything. Bite your tongue. Scream if you have to. But whatever you do, _don't talk_.~

Silva begins thrusting behind him and let's out a high pitched moan. He feels his dick pulsate inside him and tries not to gag. He ate brunch with Severine on the boat, but he has no idea if or when he will get to eat next. Better to keep what little he has in stomach down. Silva soon finds a pace he finds satisfactory and sticks with for longer than Bond wanted to think about. It was unpleasant but tolerable-to a point-until Silva began muttering filthy things into his ear.

"Do you do this with Mommy? Does she let you fuck her wet cherry? How often does she get to see _this_?" Silva emphasizes his question with a squeeze to his bollocks.

"Leave her the fuck out of this. It's me you wanted and me you've got. Isn't that enough?"

"Ahhh, so protective of her,"-his thrusting never ceases-"But truthfully, it is never enough. I will never have enough of this warm. Wet. Hole."

His assault becomes more erratic as Silva nears his end, much to James' chagrin. He squeezes his eyes shut as Silva's nails sink further into his hips as he drags him back onto his cock over and over again.

"So close, my pet. So close now, I can almost taste it."

He licks up the side of James' ear, leans over his body to bite at the juncture of neck and shoulder. His weight is unbearable on his wrists and already-weak shoulder. The pain of his ass tears through him as Silva enters him once, twice, thrice before emptying himself deep inside him with throaty moans of pleasure.

A few moments later, Silva exits James' body, and Bond grunts in pain. His ass was clenching now on nothingness. There was nothing inside him now other than thick cum that was slowly oozing its way out from his bowels. Bond is breathing heavily when he feels his bonds being untied. He has no energy to fight or to even think of escaping. This seems to please Silva greatly.

"Until next time, James. I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did. You were marvelous."

He blows him a kiss before walking out the door.

Minutes later, James and his clothes are being tossed from Silva's bedroom into some sort of holding chamber. No matter. His homing device had already been activated. It was only a matter of time before MI6 came to retrieve him. He could wait it out, he told himself. He would have to.


	2. Resolutions

After about a week of brutal ass and throat fucking, Silva starts to get a bit more creative. Soon scarves and cuffs and dildos begin coming out of Silva's closet. On the fourteenth day of his captivity, Silva brings him a cream colored garment bag and sets it on the bed in front of him.

"You will dress yourself in these clothes. I will be back in fifteen minutes. I think you are smart enough to know what happens if you are not ready in that time."

The guard holding him releases his handcuffs and leg irons. Silva winds a timer and places it on the nightstand that is bolted to the floor.

"Tick tock."

James doesn't move until he and his thugs shut the door. James has already come to the conclusion that there is no escaping from this room. The lone window looks out into a courtyard thirty feet below without a ledge, scaffolding, or deck to speak of. He releases a sigh of resignation and moves to put on whatever costume Silva has laid out for him. Undoing the zipper reveals a knee-length dress made from the same material as on of Silva's shirts. Also in the bag are black kitten heels, pearl ear rings with matching necklace, and, to top it all off, a wig of long, blonde hair. Wonderful. He had twelve minutes to put this all on. Never had Bond been so grateful for his experience with women. He would just have to put the clothes _on _rather than take them off.

Once his now-rumpled suit was carefully placed in a corner of the room, he began dressing himself. The dress came with built-in breasts and Bond had no idea what to make of _that_. The wig and jewelry gave him a bit of trouble, but soon the ear rings were biting into his lobes and he was stepping into the delicate heels. He couldn't help but wonder where these items had come from and which one of the thugs guarding the door had been sent out to retrieve them. He didn't have long to ponder this because just then the time dinged. His time was up.

Silva opens the door without knocking. James faces him with an icy glare.

"Oh, it seems Mr. Bond has escaped and left us a beautiful woman instead! What is your name, darling?"

James remains silent, and Silva lets out a huff of annoyance.

"James, you always spoil the fun. Don't you want to play a game with me?"

"I've had enough of your 'games'! What else do you want from me? You've already taken everything!" he yells in a rare fit of emotion.

He rapidly tears off the blonde wig and kicks his heels off in the direction of the goons in the doorway, making them quickly advance towards him. Silva calls them off.

"Ah, ah, ah, gentlemen. You forget our guest has a rough couple of weeks. Why don't you leave the two of us to sort this out, hm?"

This clearly isn't a suggestion. The guards leave and the door shuts again. They are alone now, and still James feels outnumbered.

"Talk to me, James. Tell me what is bothering you so much that you act like this."

"Cold-hearted bastard," he mutters, yanking off the necklace and ear rings and not caring where they fell.

"Those are real pearls, you know. I thought you would appreciate them. They reminded me of you when I saw them behind the glass display. Hard, beautiful, underrated and unappreciated. Perhaps even a bit old fashioned. All the traits I admire in you, Mr. Bond. That is why you are here. Why I chose you out of everyone else."

Silva strokes down his cheek and neck to the low collar of his dress. Gooseflesh arises in his path, and Silva smiles.

"If you don't like the dress, you don't have to wear it. Let me help you out of it if it makes you so uncomfortable."

He places his warm hands on James' shoulders and turns him around to undo the dress's zipper. Silva eases his hands into the two halves of the dress and slides it off his shoulders until it pools in a puddle of fabric at his feet. Silva lets his hands linger on Bond's hips, pulling him back up against his body. James struggles a bit, but Silva has been running him ragged and while he is being fed regularly, he can almost definitely assume that he's being drugged.

"There. All better now," Silva purrs, hands trailing around to James' front to caress him.

Silva gently rocks James in his arms as if he were a fussy child in need of a hug. James is _so _tired. Silva pulls a small bottle from his pants pocket and uncaps it one-handed. He holds it up to James' mouth like a bottle.

"Drink this."

Bond thirstily guzzles it down. Anything to forget this. Even if it was poison, although he highly doubts it. Silva wouldn't want to kill him now. God, where was Q? Where was _M_? His thoughts are already starting to get fuzzy.

"Better?"

"Mmm..."

He groggily realizes that he's being laid down on the bed. And if the skin he feels against his back is any indication, he would say that Silva had recently removed his own clothes.

"I want to go home," James slurs.

"Hush now. I know you miss Mommy. But she isn't coming for you"-slick fingers probe at his abused hole-"All in-coming transmissions are scrambled. She can't find you here"-a third finger joins the other two-"Don't worry yourself over it anymore...You are safe here, with me."

Silva forces his way inside again. Whatever was in the vial has taken the pain of penetration away...or maybe he's just used to it by now. He tells himself he doesn't care either way. It doesn't matter. He's trapped here to be used as another one of Silva's fucktoys. His body remains lax and on its side the whole time Silva fucks into him, panting into his ear and telling him how good he is, how good he feels.

"You're a beautiful boy, James. Jamie. You're so open for me. So pliant and good. Tight as any woman. You feel so sweet, Jamie. Such a good boy..."

Bond barely flinches when Silva comes across his back and ass cheeks. Silva once said it was so he would know who he belonged to, so everyone else on the island would know who he belonged to...whoever 'everyone else' was supposed to be since the whole island was deserted.

Silva kisses his neck before he leaves the bed.

"Why don't you rest here for tonight, hmmm? Have somewhere nice to sleep?"

James nods his head against the pillow.

_Yes, sleeping in a bed would be nice. Sleeping in my own bed would be even better. There would always be time tomorrow to escape. What was the hurry?_

He closes his eyes and imagines M at her desk, furiously typing away at her computer. Every so often he catches his name. _She must be looking for me. She has to be. No, there was no doubt about it. What am I doing, lying here like an injured dog? Fuck's sake. Double-oh indeed..._

He angrily pushes himself from the bed, the drug making him unsteady on his feet. He uses the pillow case to wipe himself clean of Silva's filth. He carefully makes his way to his clothes left alone in the corner of the room.

He puts his suit back on, fixes his cuff-links because he works for MI6 and England and M, and it will take more than some fucking to take him out of the game. He sits on the edge of the bed, straight backed until the sun comes up again.

He looks Silva in the eye when the man comes into his room like he's the cat who caught the canary.

"Want something?" Bond asks.

For once, it seems, Bond has the upper hand, and Silva has no witty reply for him.

"I thought so."

And without a moment's pause, he launches himself at Silva with every bit he has left of his strength and barrels him out his way as he runs out the door.

He doesn't yet know where he's going, but if he's on an island, there's bound to be more than one boat lying around. And with it, a stupid thug who won't know what hit him when he comes to commandeer it.


	3. Revelations

Silva decides to let him run for a while. His men have been given orders to shoot (cut, burn, break) him on sight. Oh, not to _kill him_. He wasn't as cruel as his own captors had been. Just to injure him enough to halt him. Something to make running and jumping and fighting more difficult. But to truly hurt him? No. Silva has grown to love him too much. The way he clenches around his cock every night, becoming more open with each fuck. His throat takes him deeper every time and the way he gags is exquisite. He's even kind enough in that's he has never made him swallow his come because Silva himself know it's an acquired taste, but perhaps when he's caught, well...there's a first time for everything, isn't there? So he let's his little rabbit push past him, tells his guards to give him a minute's head start, but after those sixty seconds they were to show no mercy.

Silva sighs and looks at his watch. If he was lucky, he would have Bond kneeling at his feet by lunch time. Maybe sooner, depending on which of his men he managed to piss off the most. Miguel was a particularly volatile individual, and Rodrigo was not what one would call a saint. Perhaps he would run into Michael; Michael always had a soft spot for Silva's special guests. Michael was a very affectionate man. It's why Silva hired him in the first place. _Ah well_, Silva thinks to himself. _There are things to do while I wait_.

Silva walks over to the main computer and punches in some codes, deactivating the scrambling system he had over his island to make it accessible to MI6 and the stupid radio Bond had in his pocket when he arrived. As much fun as they were having together, he did have his true mission to think about. He needed to get back to England and Her. He needed to see Her again, like old times.

He opens up a new program and enters in more strands of letters and numbers and tries not to think about how close the two of them had been. How they had flirted. Even teamed up a time or two when he was just starting out as a double-oh. She had posed as his woman, and he had seduced her and bedded her and loved her more than he had ever loved his own neglectful mother. Yet that apparently meant nothing to her because here he was: abandoned and rejected, disfigured and ugly and hated. A pariah in his own right, all because his Mother had not thought him important enough to save. Important enough to suck and fuck, but not important enough to forgive him of his sins. When it would have mattered and meant the most.

Yes, Her signals would be able to come through now, and transportation would come and save James, her new child, her pride and joy. For now. If there was one thing She had taught him, it was that everyone and everything is expendable. But he would kill her, and She would never be able to harm her children ever again. He would be free. James would be free. She would be free, even if She refused to look at it as such. Silva sighs again. It would all come together, when the time was right. It would work out.

Silva hears gun shots in the near distance. They must have finally ganged up on Bond. He was the one at a disadvantage, after all. He and his men knew the island as well as rats knew the sewers below their feet. As Silva continues to type, he can't help but allow his thoughts to stray to James again. Such a pretty boy. His eyes were magnificent. Probably why She chose him. They said so much when he voiced so little. His mouth could be full of his cock, yet those eyes were never silent. They told him everything. From them, he knew of the man's spirit, his pride, his strengths and weaknesses. Knew just how far he could push him without completely breaking him. It was why he never fucked him face to face. It would insult him. Even when he was sucking James off, he allowed him to keep his eyes closed. Silva never fought him on that one. It kept Bond quiet, which Silva knew James preferred.

Silva presses "enter" and walks away from his station. There was going to be a lovely little explosion in the underground in a few days. He hopes James will be there to see it. Silva _had_ set it up especially for him.

Oh, and speak of the devil! Here was the man of the hour now, being led in by Michael and Miguel. Well this is interesting indeed. It was always nice to see his staff working so well together. It made him very proud indeed.

They shove him to the floor and leave.

"James, James, James," Silva tuts, walking over to the man who was currently panting against the floor. He was so weak and tired. The drugs, of course, were partially responsible, but he had only administered them to allow him a rest. "You had me worried. Didn't Mommy ever tell you not to run off without telling someone first? You could have gotten hurt!"

There is a deep slash up the side of his face that runs up into his hairline, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. He makes a mental note to reward Michael and Miguel later. They actually had been quite careful with his precious cargo. And bargaining chip, if need be.

"You're a mess, and that cut looks painful. Come with me. Up you go now."

Silva drags him to his feet, carefully, but with some force. Bond was decidedly heavy when prone.

"You need a bath. And some stitches. Luckily I have both in my suite. You'll follow me?"

James sways on his feet and ends up leaning heavily against Silva.

"Ah, good to see you cooperating. Let's go get you cleaned up. Soon you'll be as good as new, hm?"

James cannot help but wonder when this nightmare will end.


	4. Reluctances

It's the warmth of the bath that helps wake him up. There are hands scrubbing his hair soothingly. And whatever salts that were put in the bath smell incredible. His head is throbbing something awful.

"Welcome back, Mr. Bond. You passed out while I was stitching you together. I thought you would appreciate the chance to cleanse yourself of the day," Silva murmurs, never ceasing the gentle scrubbing of his long fingers.

"Your men-"

"Tilt your head back. You're ready to rinse," Silva interrupts.

Bond heeds the warning. Getting grazed by a bullet is bad enough; no need to add drowning to his activities for the day. He hisses as the water passes over his still-tender stitches. _Although, a wash will keep away infection_, he reminds himself.

"Ready to get out?"

Bond shakes the water from his eyes and instantly regrets it. He feels like he just rattled his brain inside his skull. He groans and put a hand to his head. The room is spinning, and he feels as though he's going to be violently ill.

Silva caresses his back as they wait for James' nausea to pass. He kneads his shoulders with sure fingers and slowly eases the tension out of his neck down to his lower back. It feels so _good_.

"Fuck," James says eloquently. He can't remember a time when he was in deeper shit. He had faced explosions and injuries and death and pain, but Severine was right. _Not like this. Not like him. _The words echo in his mind over and over again.

"That can be arranged. Perhaps you would like to dry off first?"

"Yes," James sighs.

Silva grins widely, excitedly. So that's what he wanted from him: resignation. Well, he could have it.

What was the point of arguing or fighting him anymore? It served only to make him mentally and physically exhausted. His initial instincts of fight or flight were leaving him in favor of self-preservation. A feeling he is unfamiliar with and unsure of how to handle. He would have time to sort it out later, while Silva was raping him or before he fell into a fitful sleep. It was the only time he ever had to completely retreat inside his mind.

Silva drains the water and gives him a hand to steady himself with as he steps out of the bathtub. Naked, he is led from the bathroom into what appears to be Silva's master bedroom. Everything looks incredibly expensive. The plushy bed looks particularly enticing. He takes a step towards it without thinking, and when he realizes what he's done, immediately steps back.

Silva chuckles. "It's alright, James. Go on. You get settled, and I'll grab a towel to dry you off."

James opts not to answer and crawls into bed when Silva leaves. The bed is sun warm and baby soft. He gingerly rests the uninjured side of his head onto a pillow and hugs another one to his chest. _Might as well enjoy this while I can_...

Silva returns as if on cue. James closes his eyes. Silva may be administering this rub down, but that didn't mean he had to watch.

Even the towel is gloriously smooth. Silva starts with his feet and languidly makes his way up his calf and thigh to the juncture of his groin. He cannot help but twitch his hips away. Silva hushes him down like one would a frightened, yet beloved animal.

"You're alright, James. I'm only here to help. You're hurt. Let me take care of you, hm?"

"Mmm."

He slowly drops his leg back down for Silva to dry the other one. He burrows his face further into the pillow. He misses Silva's malicious smile.

"There, that wasn't so hard was it? Such a good boy, James. So good for me."

He pats James' hip to get him to roll onto his stomach. Supposedly to dry his back. Silva's hands each squeeze a cheek through the towel. James lets out a grunt; his hole has been tender since his unfortunate arrival fifteen days ago. The more Silva fucks him and plugs him, the more it tends to ache.

"Let me look at that for you. Wouldn't want any permanent damage there, now would we?"

James hears the towel hit the floor and something being uncapped. He hazards a look over his shoulder and sees an incredibly aroused Silva holding an open jar of petroleum jelly. He turns his head away but keeps his eyes open when he feels his cheeks parting. Silva inspects him silently, and James gives thanks for small blessings. The jelly is a relief to his abused anus. Silva is being so delicate with his body for once that he speaks before he even realizes what he's doing.

"Thank you."

"Ah, you're quite welcome, James," he responds affectionately.

Bond mentally berates himself. _Bloody moron_.

Once finished with the application of the lube, Silva strips himself down to his incredibly blue boxers before climbing into the bed with his new pet. He cups James' face in one of his hands and bends both of them closer to each other to kiss him. James tries not to analyze the sweetness the kiss held. Or as sweet as a man like Silva could be. Silva then deepens the kiss, opening James' mouth wider with his own, laving their tongues against each other. Bond kisses back, as sensual as M had trained him to be.

_Have to keep him happy while I wait this out_, he tries to reassure himself. _Or else I'll go mad myself_.

"I got in! M, we're in! I found him!" Q shouts from his computer station.

M quickly rushes over to him, wanting to see it for her own eyes.

She immediately turns on Tanner.

"Get a team together. We've got him. I want him in my office in twenty-four hours, do you understand? And not a minute more!" she shouts at his retreating back.

Her agent was coming home. She didn't know what shape he would be in, but she would be there. She would always be there for him.


	5. Reparations

The team she sends out to rescue Bond is ready in record time, leaving M to pace her office until he returns. Safely and in one piece, she hopes. Although knowing Bond, that probably won't be the case. He'll probably have gone and gotten a limb shot off or become malnourished out of sheer spite since he has been known to refuse food during times of great stress and strain. But how much good does it do thinking about _that_? None, is how much. _Got to keep your head together, old girl. Bond will need you_. But what if something else has happened? What if Tiago had take a more psychological approach? Brainwashed him or wiped his mind clear? What if Bond was a completely blank slate now? His mind was all he truly had, what with no kin to speak of nor any special worldly possession or even a partner. He had himself and his wits. And herself of course, but when was the last time 007 asked for help or some time off?

M tries to sit down at her new desk and work on things, other missions and other agents, but every time she grabs a pen or touches her fingers to the keyboard, she finds herself writing down her thoughts and worries instead. She throws her fountain pen down with a huff and angrily pushes her chair as she stands up to resume pacing.

What if he couldn't be helped? What if he was physically or mentally beyond repair? Could she really look him in the eyes and tell him he was of no use to her and the agency anymore? He would kill himself. She could not stand the idea of having more of his blood on her hands; she already dripping with it. She cannot even count the number of times she's been there to patch him up or send him off or bump into him in the office. She would play it cool, though they both knew just how much one meant to the other. If she were thirty years younger, they would have made a wonderful team. Unstoppable on the field and in the bedroom. She _did_ teach him everything there was to know about women, after all. She and few other choice girls, and even a few young men, she knew would be both discrete and relish the opportunity to be able to say, "I taught him that. You're welcome," had the privilege to train him.

But that was utter nonsense. M shakes her head. Now was not the time to be thinking of James' sexual prowess. It was probably the last thing on his mind, and so it should be the last thing on hers. He was probably being tortured and here she was sighing over him like a school girl. Their relationship went deeper than just a crush though. One who didn't know them better might even call it motherly. Yet even that wasn't quite the right word for what they shared. It wasn't quite friendship either. She doesn't need a label to know that they love each other, in their own way, on their own unspoken terms.

She just wants him to come home.

Silva's acting differently today, and Bond doesn't like it. Not that he has been happy with his usual treatment, but at least his actions had been more predictable. Today, he was...off. Even considering that this was Silva, something was uniquely wrong.

"Come here, James," he says, calmly, but with a cold bite to his voice.

Clothed in some loose garments Silva had dressed him, he steps forward. They had fucking burned his suit last night. Said it was no good. Not salvageable. Bloody wankers.

"Kneel at my feet," he commands.

James does, looking to his left and right to gauge if he is the only one sensing a difference in Silva's behavior. Though it's difficult to say, the thugs at the door seem more tense than usual. Rodrigo keeps looking out the window like he's expecting to see something. The wheels in his head begin turning, but his thoughts are interrupted when Silva shoves his dick in his mouth. James closes his eyes on autopilot, almost starting to get used to this.

_Wait, what am I thinking? How could someone _ever _get used to this_? It was awful and harsh and it was no wonder that some of his girls hadn't liked doing it. Silva was bitter tasting as he began to leak into his mouth, with a hint of something tart slipping in. Their key lime pie from dessert the other night? Or maybe it was—

Silva thrusts in deep and his train of thought derails. He gags, and Silva laughs.

"Swallow me down, little rabbit."

James tries to get him deeper on his own and tears stream down his cheeks. He can't breathe. He's choking. Finally, Silva pulls out to allow him air. His eyes pop open as he gulps down precious oxygen. Breath caught, Silva grips his head and shoves in again. What a gentleman.

There's a noise in the distance that catches Bond's attention. What was that? He wants to turn his head to look out the window, but Silva's gripping him too tightly for him to move. He hazards a look by opening his eyes and turning them towards the guards. They too have heard the noise.

One of them says something in rapid Spanish, and Bond doesn't catch most of it. One word stands out to him.

"...here."

_Who_?

God, dare he even hope?

"Ahhh," Silva moans. "Looks like Mommy's friends have found you."

Bond struggles in his grip, twisting his knees into concrete as he tries to get away. Silva has him pinned just enough to make it impossible: one hand on the back of his head, one hand in a vice on his shoulder, cock halfway down his throat.

"Weren't you—unfff—ever taught to finish a job before you leave, James?"

James whines angrily in the back of his throat, which seems to please his rapist greatly.

"I'll miss this, James. I'll think fondly of my time with you, and I can only hope you feel the same way."

The copters sound close now. Hopefully they'll find him quickly.

For the first time in sixteen days, Bond looks him in the eye while he sucks him, transmitting hatred and his lust for revenge from his crystal blue eyes. They stay locked onto Silva's dark-brown ones, until it is Silva who looks away as he throws his head back when he comes.

It flows down his throat and out his mouth until it is spilling down his chin. Always Silva comes as if he hasn't come in ages. He twists his head to spit like he has been doing when Silva catches him once more and forces his jaw shut.

"Swallow."

Bond fights him and squirms in his grasp, but when Silva pinches his nose shut, he has no choice but to do so. His body instantly feels like rejecting it, but he knows that if he throws up, it would just more humiliation on his part.

"Good boy, James."

The entrance to the room bursts open loudly with the sounds of guns cocking joining the banging of the door. Silva backs away from Bond quietly, hands in the air and cock hanging out. Bond is still on his knees panting and coughing up strands of come. It's quite obvious the MI6 team has just interrupted. What a sight they must make.

The next thing he knows, Bond is being dragged up and backwards into a squad of agents while the leader yells at Silva to do up his pants, "but try anything funny, and I shoot it off."

Silva laughs.

Just as promised, Tanner has Bond in her office with the twenty-four hours she had given him. He's even showered and dressed himself impeccably. On a superficial level, he looked completely normal, barring the sutured cut on the side of his head. Looking closer told a different story. There was a new dead look in his eyes, and he flinched a bit when Tanner had shaken his hand welcoming him back. And of course, the rescue team's report told the rest of the story. He had been raped.

He sits across from her like he's challenging her.

"You can take as much time as you need," she says.

"Time for what?"

"Time to get back on your feet. And time to see a psychologist. That's not optional."

"If it will make you feel better, why don't I just quit altogether?"

M sighs. "That's not what I'm saying, and you know it. You need help, and I'm trying to give it to you."

"Help with what?" he asks stubbornly.

"Because you were raped, James. Repeatedly over the course of two weeks, and God knows what else happened to you. But we won't ever know or be able to help you unless you're straight with me," she snaps back.

"Sixteen."

"What?"

"I was 'raped repeatedly' for _sixteen_ days, M. Better have your facts straight for the record."

He almost enjoys the way her face falls as if she herself has been deeply wounded.

"James, you know I—"

"I know," he says quietly.

She holds herself back from cradling him to her, wanting nothing more than to embrace him and tell him it will all be alright. Because she will always be there for him. She never had her own children, but there's a flair of something inside her that can only be labeled maternal.

"Talk to someone," she pleads. "I couldn't stand—don't do anything irreversible."

He nods his head because he doesn't trust his voice. He's kept it together for this long, but if M starts getting sentimental on him, he doesn't know if he'll be able to stand it. He moves to leave, but she catches his elbow before he walks out the door.

"Promise me I'll see you within the next few days," she demands.

He wouldn't be the first MI6 agent to eat his gun. If he promises her, there's no going back on it. He nods again.

"Say it out loud. I need—I need to hear you say it."

His jaw quivers as he tries and fails to choke down the sob that's been threatening to overtake him. It's a losing battle.

"I promise," he sobs, completely breaking down.

The shards of his facade fall around him as he sinks to his knees at her feet, tears falling freely from his eyes. She sits on the floor beside him and pulls him to her as she had ached to do before. He turns into her neck and wraps his arms around her, holding her just as tightly. She runs a hand soothingly through his hair, whispering softly to him.

"Shhh, shhh, you're home now. You're here with me. You're a brave man, James. You'll be alright. You're so strong. You've done you're job, now let me do mine."

She's unsure of how long they stay like that, but it's long enough that her joints start to protest. She hates to move him now that's he's settled into quiet brooding, but she'll never get up if she doesn't move soon.

"James?" she says reluctantly.

He slowly moves his head up from her shoulder and the hand that had been resting against his neck drops away. He looks at her with a tear stained face and tired eyes, but looking a bit more like his former self.

When he stands, he helps her up, and she tries not to show her discomfort from sitting on the floor. She may be old, but she certainly isn't weak.

James looks unsure as to what he should do next, so she prompts him herself.

"You can always sleep in the agent barracks if you don't want to go to your flat. I didn't go back to mine the first few nights either."

He looks at her with new understanding and with a well-meant platitude on his tongue. She holds up a hand to stop him.

"Take care of yourself, 007. We're a corporation of two dozen branches for a reason. Take what's being offered to you. You might be glad you did."

Bond gives her a hint of a smile.

"Yes, ma'am."


End file.
